


Revenge and Chocolate Cake

by vtn



Category: Matthew Good Band
Genre: Food Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-18
Updated: 2006-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a game of Truth or Dare, it is uncovered that Dave has an amusing history with chocolate cake frosting.  Rich leaves some for him as a prank, but it turns out that living well is the best revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge and Chocolate Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Written for canistakahari because I was slowly converting her from not liking this pairing at all to being a pretty big fan of it. XD

The only reason games like Truth or Date and I Never exist is for grade schoolers to play at slumber parties and completely fail at coming up with anything interesting (or so I hear, because I was never invited to those kinds of parties), and, apparently, for my drunk Canadian friends to facetiously play over a table covered in shrimp shells and playing cards. I flick at a five of clubs with my fingernails, and Rich, mid-sentence, lunges for it.

“ _My_ Solitaire game,” he drawls. Then he reclines on the couch, spreading his legs and folding his hands behind his head. “I never shit my pants on public transportation.” Oh, right. I forgot to mention. They may be playing facetiously, but that doesn’t mean they can’t still target each other’s major weaknesses and embarrassments.

Everyone looks at Ian. Ian looks at the floor. Ian looks at the ceiling. Ian looks carefully at every one of us. We look back, levelly.

Ian makes a cough that sounds vaguely like it has some words in it.

“Say that again?” says Dave, a challenging glint in his eyes.

“I never used condiments on a significant other,” he says, speaking softly but giving every single word emphasis.

“Define ‘condiments’!” Dave shoots back almost immediately, looking simultaneously proud and defensive. Ian gives me a shove.

“Hey Mister Dictionary, what’s a condiment? Tell Genn here what a condiment is.”

“Ketchup, mustard…. Look, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t want to know what Dave does with condiments in his spare time.” I try to do the ‘self-important because I’m not drunk’ thing, but have to push my glasses up my nose, so the effect fails. Ian clears his throat.

“Does,” he clears his throat again, “ _Cake frosting_ count as a condiment?” He shoots pointed glances around the room. Dave rolls his eyes, but at the same time he’s nervously combing a sweaty hand through sweatier hair.

“Okay, sure.” I stand up, pushing the cards off the table into my hand and straightening the deck, leaving Rich whimpering. “Cake frosting’s a condiment, guys. You heard it from Matthew Good. Dave loses. I’m going to bed.” I flick through the cards, watching Rich twitch.

“I was gonna _win_ ,” he whines, pitiful.

“You are all fucking smashed!” I say with a triumphant laugh and leave the room, a winner in my mind only. I have no idea what else happens in Rich and Ian’s room that night, and something tells me this is a fact for which I should be very thankful.

Instead, I spend the night playing Golf and then at about midnight I get an idea for a manifesto, which I’m still writing when Dave collapses into bed. When I run out of paper, I write on the back of the Ace of Spades, thus ruining this deck for poker games permanently.

I wake up the next day to the sound of the buzzer. The digital clock tells me it’s a quarter till noon. The room is still as dark as it was in midnight, since the curtains are drawn and the lights are turned off. I have a crick in my neck, and Dave is still snoring loudly.

Swearing under my breath, I drag myself out of the bed and get the door, flicking the light on and blinking as pain courses through my forehead. There’s a man in a suit standing there with a name tag: Maurice.

Have you ever noticed how hotel staff and hairdressers are always named Maurice? Sometimes I wonder if there isn’t a factory where they mass-produce Maurices with buzzed black hair and shiny foreheads just like this one. This Maurice, however, is defective—there’s a stain on his collar. Yes, folks, I am that guy, the one who notices you have a stain on your collar or some spinach between your teeth.

His name is Maurice, and he’s holding a box.

“Room service,” he says, and I’m about to tell him we didn’t get room service, but my stomach gives a warning growl. I give in, and nod.

“Thanks,” I say and take the box. “Do you need my name or anything?”

“It’s billed to your room, sir.” Once again, I nod, and once he’s off I grin triumphantly because we agreed that the four of us would divide _every_ expense between us, so Minibar At Your Own Risk (of being yelled at by three angry Canadians).

I set the box on a table and wonder what sort of mix-up would lead to us getting room service, what with both of us fast asleep before the buzzer ringing, Dave hung over and me lacking sleep from touring and writing.

Either way. I open the box, and then don’t know whether to grin like a maniac or shoot myself in the head.

It’s a chocolate cake.

At least Rich or Ian, whichever one it was, didn’t stoop as low as to write something on the cake. But no matter what, I’m going to have to be around to face Dave’s ultimate humiliation. And once again it’s going to be ridiculously childish and I’m going to feel like shit for feeling like I’m too good to be a part of it.

Dave makes a sound that reminds me vaguely of a bear.

“Dave?” I ask. I decide that once he gets up, we’re going shopping or something because honestly even that would be better than being stuck in a hotel room and out of paper. Maybe I should write manifestos on the walls and hope that someone will read them and their life will be changed. Well, except for the part where the hotel management will have it painted over and then sue my record company.

“Dave?” I repeat. He grumbles.

“Whassamatter, Matt? Bad dream?”

“Yes, Mommy, please hold me and make it all right. Fuck off, Dave.”

“What time is it?” I quirk an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I said what _time_ is it; are you deaf _and_ retarded?”

“Yup.” I grin. Dave dangles an arm over his bed then finally rolls off it in a big heap of flowery comforter on the floor. “Noon. And I want to go do something. So get your ass up.” There’s an immediate change in Dave. He pops his head up from the blankets.

“Shit. Shit fuckity fuck shit.” He throws down the comforter and gets to his feet. “Ian and Rich said they were going to do something at ten. And I was going to get up early enough to stop them. Fuck. They didn’t give you anything, did they?”

“I think,” I say with a wry smile, “I think I know what Ian and Rich did.” I gesture at the table.

“They gave you a box?”

“Look in the box, Dave.” I smile sweetly. Dave gets up, stumbling over the top sheet, and walks over to the table. He looks in the box.

“Yeah, I can tell they had this idea when they were drunk,” says Dave. He pushed the sheet down from around his waist where it’s gathered like a skirt.

I look at him for a minute, and decide that maybe I should just attempt this drunken college kid variety of fun.

“Let’s go open the connecting door between the rooms and throw this cake in Ian and/or Rich’s face.” I cock my head, wait to see what Dave thinks of the idea.

“Sounds good.” I actually do get to feeling a little conspiratorial, so we quietly pad over to the door and I push it open with a single finger, nodding in approval as it doesn’t even creak. We both peer around the frame, Dave holding the box of cake behind his back.

Ian and Rich’s room is empty. On further inspection, Dave and I find a note left on the table telling us that the two of them have gone out to see a movie and that we seriously need to stop ruining their fun by sleeping in like the dickheads we are.

“What do you think they’re doing?” says Dave with a roll of his eyes.

“I don’t know, Dave, do you think they might be seeing _The Matrix_ for the fifth time?”

“That’s impossible, Matthew,” says Dave, “Because Ian has already seen _The Matrix_ nine times.”

“Well Rich has only seen it three times, so five is the average or something.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Shut up.” I walk back into our room, eyeing the pile of blankets on the floor. “That was a really smooth exit you made out of bed, by the way.” Dave is still dragging the top sheet, and he examines it.

“Eh, no damage done.”

I sit back on my bed.

“So what are we going to do, then? Shopping? Lunch? Personally I don’t want to see The Matrix again, and there’s nothing else good out. There might be bowling or a golf course or something…” I lean back on the bed until I fall over. “ _God_ I’m bored. You can’t even count the cracks in the ceiling because it’s made out of that Styrofoam crap.”

“Yeah, and we’re not supposed to like Styrofoam because it kills the whales or something.” Dave closes the box of chocolate cake, then opens it again. “There’s even a knife in here. I have no idea what those two thought could be interesting about supplying me with cake frosting, unless they wanted me to demonstrate—uh, I mean…”

I sit up, hands on my knees.

“No, Dave.” I tilt my head to look up at him. “I’m curious. What _can_ you do with cake frosting?”

“You’re curious?”

“I’m curious.”

He takes the knife in his hand, fiddles with it a little.

“Well, with cake frosting…with cake frosting, you can…you can do a lot of things, actually.” Dave picks up the cake box and sets it down beside me before climbing up onto the bed. He tentatively sticks a finger in the cake and is about to lick it when I grab his wrist.

“Hey, no fair you going first.” We grapple a little but then I lean forward and lick the frosting off Dave’s finger.

“Now _that_ was just a dirty trick, Matt.”

“I’m quite aware.”

“But I have other tricks up my sleeve.”

“Aware of that too. You also—”

But I’m cut off because Dave lunges for me, pushing me onto my back and pulling my T-shirt over my head. After I catch my breath, I look up into a face that wouldn’t look so out of place on the Devil himself. I wonder for a moment what it is that I’ve gotten myself into.

Dave’s hands slide down to my wrists, pinning them down, and he forces a knee down over each side of my waist. I can practically feel my pupils shrink. He lowers his head to run his tongue along my collarbone, making me shudder and my cock twitch.

“Dave?”

“Matt?” The way he says my name, through a ragged breath, sends a warm rush through me and it’s almost enough to make me come on the spot. I grit my teeth and hold back.

“You need to stop doing that.”

“Okay.” Dave pushes himself (mostly) off of me. I can’t help but softly whine at the loss of contact and pray he doesn’t hear me. I know he does, though, because he smiles fucking _possessively_ and runs a hand along my chin and neck. I’m already a shuddering mess for him, and it’s hardly been a minute.

He reaches for the box and I see him cut a slice of cake out of the corner of my eye. I start to get up but he pushes me back down, hands on my wrists.

“ _Don’t_.” The look in his eyes tells me enough. I swallow, my throat feeling dry.

“Whatever you say, Dave.” I mean it to be sarcastic, but it comes out earnest, and I realize I actually do fear what he’ll do if I don’t listen to him. A smile spreads over his face.

“Good.”

He pinches some cake between his fingers and shoves it into his mouth, nodding as he chews and swallows it. I scowl, my stomach once again reminding me that I haven’t eaten in more than twelve hours.

Then he cuts a second piece, just a sliver, and feeds it to me, spreading the chocolate frosting over my lips and teeth as I try to swallow. It’s fucking _fudge_ frosting, and it’s so goddamn rich I might keel over and die. Wherever Ian and Rich ordered this thing from, they know what they’re doing. But Dave doesn’t give me a lot of time to consider it. His tongue is in my mouth, almost making me choke, and once again he’s pressed up against my chest, wriggling and spreading my legs apart.

There’s more cake in his hand, and when I try and wrench it away he slaps me across the face. Numbness gives way to pain which is halted in its progress by him kissing and licking my cheek and then feeding me another piece of cake.

I swallow and look up at him.

“What can you do with _frosting_?” I challenge.

“I told you. A lot.”

He picks up the knife and shaves a layer of frosting off the top of the cake, then twirls the knife between his fingers. Finally holding it like one usually holds a knife, he brings it down to my chest and leaves a line of chocolate frosting across it.

The serrated edge catches on my nipple and I wince. Dave’s mouth replaces it, his warm tongue running over the tiny scrape until I can’t feel it anymore. Meanwhile, sticky fingers are slipping past my waistband and prying my thighs apart, teasing at sensitive skin.

“Please,” I gasp.

He shakes his head with a smile and pulls his hand away, dipping his fingers back into the cake box and spreading more frosting along my stomach. He does it again, but licks his fingers first so when he slides them across my hips they’re warm and wet and slick.

Then he seems to give in, and his hand wraps around my cock, jerking me hard and fast. My hands twitch and my body twitches with them, my hips arch up into his hand. Dave leans down and kisses me again, licking the chocolate off my lips and then running his tongue over them again and again until they’re chapped and raw.

“Really, that’s enough,” I manage, but he doesn’t stop. One of his hands returns to the nipple where the knife scraped me, and he circles his thumb over it in a fast, steady motion, working the cut back open until I want to scream.

Instead I come into his hand, my teeth locking down on his lip and tugging as my orgasm runs its course, sparking and spitting through my veins. I can’t help but notice once again that the ceiling is the most boring hotel ceilings get, so just for the hell of it I toss an errant piece of cake at it.

The cake falls down, but it leaves a satisfying chocolate smear.

“You’re brilliant!” Dave says and kisses me. I wrap a hand around the back of his head and press back into the kiss, my tongue practically against his molars. It’s a long time before we pause for a breath.

“But even brilliant needs to take showers.” We disentangle ourselves and I pull my pants off, tossing them in a corner to be dealt with later. Then we help ourselves to another piece of cake each.

I’m just about to head to the bathroom when the connecting door opens.

“Hello,” says Rich.

“You seem to have enjoyed yourselves,” Ian adds.

“Um,” says Dave.

I look down at myself. I’m covered in chocolate frosting and cake crumbs, smeared in tribal patterns from my neck down to, embarrassingly obvious, between my legs. I imagine that my lips are bright red, and my ears probably are too because I’m blushing like an idiot. Dave and the bed are just as much of a mess as I am, although admittedly Dave’s wearing clothes.

Then I look back at Rich and Ian, who stand there with their arms crossed.

And I can’t help it.

I start laughing hysterically, and I don’t stop until I’m on the floor in tears, gasping for breath, because yes, it really is that funny.


End file.
